Carhart the Caledonian Sleeper
by Zabbie Q
Summary: [Gift for a friend] A shy Scottish sleeper has a moment with an amiable American sleeper.


Carhart and Angus belong to (the awesome) HashamotoGloria. Check her out on DA!

I apologize for any mistakes in Scottish terminology. If you have suggestions to improve it, please PM me. :)

* * *

"Cheer up, lad," said Angus the beef train, slapping the young sleeping car beside him on his back. "You are a champion racer in a new land. Enjoy yourself."

Carhart faked a smile for his older companion, doing his best to hide his wince at the pain the strong locomotive had dealt into his steel frame, but once Angus turned his attention back to his beer and the hotel jazz band accompanying a pretty blonde coach crooning on stage, the blue sleeper slouched again over his plate, halfheartedly picking at the "french fries" the waiter had recommended as his side dish. It smelled okay, but these stringy cuts of potatoes could not hold a candle to the plump chips he could get back home.

He would have preferred an evening in his room reading the new book his mother had given him before he had left their yard in Scotland, but Angus had dragged him to the Roundhouse Inn's lounge, all but literally throwing Carhart over his shoulder. "The sassenach are paying for it, Harty. Why not enjoy it?" the meat train had crowed.

Carhart knew there was some truth in Angus's logic: the opportunity to be in the States for the world championship railroad race did not come along too often. Last year the engine of the Royal Train, the Prince of Wales, had won the spot as the British representative. However, the awkward diesel had been scrapped (as Wilton Yard called being removed from the race list) mere minutes before the Prince's elimination heat. As a result Angus, one of Carhart's neighbors back home, had decided that this year the British champion ought to be a Scotsman. That was how Carhart had found himself racing against trains from all over the U.K. a few weeks ago and why he now sat in the lounge of a hotel in Wilton Yard, trying not to draw attention to himself as the surrounding American rolling stock craned their heads to get a good look at him and Angus.

 _You're a long way from the_ Caledonian Sleeper, _Harty_ , he told himself, and he ran a self-conscious hand over his blond head. _Just try not to make a fool of yourself in front of millions_.

His artificial stomach churned within him as his train of thought found its favorite terminus of late: the upcoming race. He had had his own share of stage fright through which he had weathered back at the British National Trials, but that had been a Sunday school picnic compared to what lay ahead.

Carhart looked self-consciously down at his lap. At the moment he wore blue trousers for casual wear, but Angus wanted them both to sport kilts in the race. "There has not been a Scot in the race for fifteen years," the locomotive would say to the point of making it a mantra. "If the bullet train can dress like a samurai and the Frenchy can wear a beret, we can show our tartans."

However, Angus possessed agility and balance on the track, and with the thick muscles beneath his man-made skin, he cut a patriotic figure when he had worn his racing costume in the British Trials. A shrimp of a male sleeper did not exactly cause the Caledonian trains to puff out their chests with pride. With Carhart's luck, he would probably trip during the race and have his kilt fly up over his belt in front of millions, and then his mother and the rest of the neighborhood would see his bahookie plastered across the morning paper while they ate breakfast.

Carhart swallowed although his mouth felt like cotton. He knew Greaseball, the ex-champion, would be racing this year to reclaim his title, and the locomotive's recent conversion to steam power meant he would be doubly determined to prove himself. Carhart had grown up watching the great American diesel using fisticuffs to take out his rivals and their partners: a he-coach with blond locks might as well paint a target on his face.

The piano player began a new melody, drawing Carhart out of his anxious thoughts, and the coach's gaze drifted toward the stage. Even over the chatter of the patrons, the lounge singer's mezzo voice carried to his table, sweet tempered and dreamlike. " _All I do is dream of you the whole night through_ ," the carriage crooned sweetly into the microphone, a trace of a Southern accent in every syllable. " _With the dawn I still go on, dreaming of you…_ "

Carhart could not help noticing that from this distance she seemed to be some kind of sleeping car, although she had an inordinate number of windows across her limbs and torso. Her shoulder compartments were a shiny silver beneath the stage lights, quite nice against the sky-blue dress with white clouds and ruffle trim that might have been made from a quilt. He also noticed a row of windows looped over her long, sun-bleached hair like a headband. It looked rather fetching.

Angus suddenly nudged Carhart with his elbow. "That one's a belter, don't you think, Harty?" he chuckled, pointing his knife toward the stage. "You should talk to her after the show, sleeper to sleeper."

Carhart stiffened and returned to his chips. "Mum wouldn't like me seeing a foreigner," he said at last, taking a bite of the cooling food. "Especially if she isn't Catholic."

Angus snorted. "There's a lot your ma don't like." He clapped Carhart on the back again, almost causing the male coach to choke on a bit of fried potato. "We'll have to use this time to cut you from her apron strings and make you into a man."

Carhart sputtered into his napkin. "That's really not necessary - " he started to say, but two excited squeals cut him off.

Carhart lifted his head to see two she-cars braking a short distance from their table, wearing expressions of anticipation. The redhead one on the left had mature, pointed features and wore an ornamental cheeseburger atop her hat and a brown neck scarf. The other had mocha-colored hair twisted into a high, curly bun with a coffee mug in front that read _EAT AT JO'S_. Each coach clutched a tiny book and pen.

"Excuse us, Mr. Angus," said the older one. "I'm Phryne the grill car, and this is Jo the coffee-shop car. Can we get your autograph?"

Angus gave Carhart a knowing look before he grinned at the carriages. "Aye, we can oblige you both."

"Excellent!" answered Phryne. She took the empty chair beside Angus without an invitation while Jo took the one beside Carhart. Carhart began to wonder if they actually were guests in the Roundhouse Inn or had snuck their way past hotel security.

Phryne pushed her autograph book toward Angus with a coquettish smile. "We've read all about you in the papers," she said, lacing her fingers together. Her black eyes glittered in a way that made Carhart think of a cat before it pounces on a mouse. "Your photo doesn't do you justice."

"What camera could?" replied Angus with a laugh as he signed his name. Jo began to hand him her book, but Angus grabbed Carhart's blue shoulder and gave him a shake, causing the younger man's windows to rattle. "And you'll be wanting Harty's too. I wouldn't be here without his help."

Phryne flashed Carhart a quick smile. "Of course."

Jo nodded furiously, and she surveyed Carhart as if seeing him for the first time. "The photos don't do you justice," she said, parroting her friend.

Carhart coughed into the wheels on his wrist before he carefully used his calligraphy techniques to sign his name, giving himself a reason not to make eye contact.

"A good race partner can make all the difference," purred Phryne sycophantically, turning back to the locomotive. "Remember last year when all the Nationals except Greaseball had their partners in the repair shop because of that rain storm? They all had to get new carriages, and you could see that they were struggling to move with strangers behind them."

Jo bobbed her head. "And Greaseball would have won if he had stayed with Dinah," she said.

"I'm not aiming to play musical chairs on race night," said Angus as he scribbled his name in Jo's book.

"Good," replied Phryne, twirling the tips of her bobbed red hair between her fingers. "Although there's also something to be said about already having a relief partner who you're comfortable with. In case something happened to your current partner, it's good to have a spare that you've been practicing with."

"Not a stranger," chimed in Jo. "A friendly acquaintance."

"Imagine how the Prince of Wales would have done if he had brought along a spare coach, not just the saloon car," continued Phryne. "What was her name? Countess Moon?"

"Lady Luna," corrected Carhart, passing Phryne back her book.

"That's the one," nodded Phryne. "Princey said he had been on the way to meet his replacement partner when someone knocked him out from behind, and he was scrapped from the race list. Wouldn't have happened if he had two coaches already."

"Or three," added Jo.

"I'll keep that under consideration," Angus smiled, but Carhart thought he was struggling to keep from laughing. "Harty is a belter though. I don't think we have to worry."

Phryne sent Carhart a sweet smile. "Oh, I can see that," she said in a tone the sleeper wasn't sure he wanted to hear. "I don't think anyone could look into those bonnie eyes and dent a rivet on him."

"A real doll," agreed Jo with an interested mien. "We'll have to make sure you stay safe then, Harty." She laid a hand on Carhart's wrist.

The blue sleeper immediately grabbed his half-empty glass. "I'm going to get a refill," he announced, jumping to his wheels. "'Scuse me."

Angus visibly bit his cheek, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "We'll get a waitress to do it, son. Sit down and enjoy our company."

"Er, no need," Carhart said quickly, already moving toward the bar on the right of the stage.

Jo stood as well and grabbed her autograph book. "I could do with a spritzer. I'll join you." She grabbed the sleeper's arm, and Carhart was obliged to roll with her past tables of dining trains.

They reached the bar just as the lounge car announced that the band would be going on a short break and that patrons should remember to tip their servers. Carhart awkwardly waved toward the brunette bar car in a blue dirndl managing the counter, but the carriage raised a polite finger toward him before returning to the drink she was in the middle of mixing.

"It must be so much fun racing professionally," Jo chirped.

"Aye," replied Carhart, keeping his eyes on the bar car. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance for me." That was certainly true. Angus could have brought along one of the baltic freezer vans from his meat train, but he had chosen to take a passenger car with him instead. "I'll be happy to get home when it's over though." That was doubly true.

Jo moved closer to him, and dimples appeared on her freckled cheeks. "I don't normally say stuff like this," she said, fluttering her creamy-mocha eyelids, "but you have the most adorable accent."

Carhart leaned back, nearly dropping his glass. "That's k-kind of you to say." Why did his face have to burn right now?

"You know, I'm part Scottish on my mother's side," she grinned. " _Erin go Bragh_."

"That's Irish," said Carhart, edging closer against the counter.

"I'm that too," the coach simpered without missing a beat. "Do you like movies, Harty? The cinema coach is showing _Titanic_ this weekend. Very romantic, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't be knowing," Carhart mumbled. Maybe if he could make a break for it, he could be back in his room with the door locked before the coffee-shop car could move a wheel out of the lounge. "Mum says it's better to spend money on things that'll last."

"Funny, my ma says matters of the heart always last," replied Jo, showing her white teeth.

However, before Carhart could map out his escape route, a slim hand suddenly clasped his arm and pulled him away from the bar.

"There you are, sugar!" said a feminine Southern voice. "You were just so kind to wait until little ol' me went on break."

"Er…" Carhart blinked at the blue eyes and sun-kissed face of the lounge singer, and his mechanical heart seemed to miss a few clicks. Where had she come from?

"You're such a gentleman, suh," the singing sleeper gushed, but she subtly nudged her sun-bleached head to her left, as if urging him to start moving.

Carhart tried to form a sound, but the cleverest thing he could managed was, "Ah…"

The lady sleeper gave one of those laughs which polite trains made at parties when someone told an average joke. She looped her slim arms around his lanky one, tugging him toward the opposite end of the bar, and Carhart caught a sweet whiff of mangoes from her hair. "You could charm the dew right off the honeysuckle, Mr. Carhart. Let's move over here. I see two free seats." She then nodded to Jo. "Thanks for entertaining him for me, Josephine."

With that, the stranger maneuvered him around the disappointed Jo, and Carhart allowed himself to be pulled toward the quieter section of the counter. The sleeper took a seat and patted the red stool beside her. "You can hang out here until she leaves, sugar."

Carhart sat, still staring at his rescuer. He opened his mouth, intending to say thank you, but the only thing that came out was a simple, "Um…."

The she-sleeper flashed him a smile and turned to the bar car in the blue dirndl who had finally finished the five colorful margaritas she had been concocting. "Hey, Brandy, can you get me a Shirley Temple and whatever my friend here wants?"

The bar coach smiled at Carhart. "What's your pleasure, sweetie?"

"Water with lemon," said the male sleeper lamely, holding up his half-filled glass.

"Excellent choice for an athlete," said the other sleeping car. As Brandy started on their drinks, Carhart's rescuer folded her gloved hands, and an apologetic expression crossed her tan face. "I hope I didn't overstep my bounds back there."

Carhart's senses began to return. "What? Er, no, no. Thanks."

The blonde woman leaned her chin against the back of her hand. "Don't mind Jo, Mr. Carhart," she said. "We only get famous trains once a year, and some coaches want to snag the unsuspecting bachelors."

Carhart looked away, pinking. "I'm not that famous," he said flatly. "Angus is the one who does all the work in the race. I just hang onto his belt - and pray."

"That's still important," the sleeper girl tittered. Carhart thought she had a friendly laugh. The lady carriage gestured toward Angus, still at the table with Phryne. "The newspapers didn't say how you know each other. Is he your kin?"

 _Don't let Mum hear you say that_ , Carhart thought with an inward chuckle, imagining his prim, proud family-saloon mother beside the brawny diesel locomotive who could turn the words "Right, lads, watch this!" into a catchphrase.

"No, he's just lives in our yard," the male coach explained.

"How neighborly of you to help him," she answered, giving him an admiring look as Brandy placed their glasses in front of them. "How did you start racing together?"

The bar car's eyes widened at him with interest even as she began making another drink.

Carhart rolled his shoulders, focusing his attention on squeezing the lemon wedge into the ice water. "Some sassenach - er, English engines were talking about how they hoped this London locomotive would represent Britain here in Wilton. Angus heard them and challenged them to race. I was only passing by at the time, and Angus grabbed my arm and said we had to show them how Scots roll on the rails."

The woman's blue eyes sparkled. "He sounds like quite the character!"

"Aye," he agreed, unwrapping his fresh straw, but then he gave himself a quick shake. Why did he tell her so much? "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name, miss."

"Didn't give it yet," she said good-naturedly, reaching over the counter to grab a blue cocktail umbrella which she used to stab a plump cherry in her glass. "I'm Sundrop the sun-lounge sleeper, but everyone calls me Sunny."

Carhart blinked. "Sorry, sun what?"

She tapped her left shoulder, her A end, which had a glazed roof like a greenhouse. "Sun lounge." She tapped her right shoulder, her B end, which had a strip of tiny windows. "Sleeper. I'm a genuine combine car, suh. All the way from the late, great Seaboard Air Line itself. Wilton Yard is the furthest west I've ever been," she added before she took a sip of her mocktail.

"Me too," agreed Carhart. "I work on one of the _Caledonian Sleeper_ trains. I usually go from London to Aberdeen, which is on the east - "

"Mmm!" Sunny cried through her closed mouth, and her eyes lit up. She quickly swallowed. "I'm saving up to go to London someday."

"You are?"

"As fast as I can on a singer's salary after rent and groceries," she replied. "It costs a small fortune to book a voyage on a decent boat - though my sister, Daytona Beach, keeps telling me the boat might sink." She gave a little shake of the head. "She's always worrying about me."

"Sounds like my mother," Carhart muttered as he took a sip of his water.

Sunny leaned forward, interest on her tan face. "What was it like crossing the Atlantic? Any bad weather?"

"The weather was fine. I spent most of my time in work mode, so I kept my avatar inside my cabin," replied the male sleeper slowly. Of course leave it to him to get seasick on his first ocean voyage. "Angus challenged the ship's avatar to a few drinking contests, and the human captain let him steer when he won."

Sunny snickered into her hand. "He sounds so colorful."

That was the second time she had complimented a story about Angus. Carhart crinkled his straw wrapper. Why couldn't he share a witty or adventurous anecdote about his own life that could make her laugh too? _Because you have no life_ , he answered himself. _You're only here because Angus was nice to you. Any other racer would have brought a real partner_.

Sunny suddenly turned her head toward an opulent clock on the wall behind the bar. "Ooh, my break is almost up," she winced, "and I don't want to keep you if you got to head back to your room. I reckon you'll want to leave the hotel early tomorrow to get some practice in on the training tracks."

"I'm counting the minutes," he said under his breath, lifting his glass.

However, Sunny had heard his grumbling, and she rose an eyebrow. "Are you nervous?"

Carhart stiffened. "The crowds can break one's concentration, that's all," he said quickly, staring down at his lap. "I would hate for Angus to lose focus because some eejit rooting for another train starts mocking him."

"We do get a few brutes 'round these parts that like to throw junk," agreed Sunny, knitting her blonde brow. "What do you think Mr. Angus would do?"

"Probably something that would land him in jail for a few days."

Sunny suddenly clicked her fingers. "You should talk to Poppa McCoy," she said excitedly. "He's that old steamer who raced with the hopper last year."

Carhart recalled getting up before dawn to watch the American nighttime races on the tiny box his mother allowed them to have. He remembered how in the second elimination heat the other racers, Espresso, Bobo and Ruhrgold, had pointed and laughed at the old man as he had rolled out with a large wagon, but they had all been shamed when the steamer had come in first place. "You really think he can help?"

Sunny nodded. "He and Rusty started training kids for a racing league, so they're always reserving tracks. Poppa could help you find a private line if you ask him." She reached over the counter again and brought out a pen and a cocktail napkin. "You can usually find him around this shed. I'll write it down for you."

That actually sounded like a solution. He stared at her. "Thank you, Ms. Sunny."

"Of course, Mr. Carhart." She laid down the pen and stood, pushing away the remains of her mocktail. She started to turn back toward the stage where the rest of the band were beginning to congregate, but she suddenly spun to face him again. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "I can ask my manager if you can be allowed to duck into the staff break room when the vultures start circling."

Carhart's eyebrows shot up. "That's generous of you."

Sunny shrugged, smiling. "T.T.F.N. as Tigger would say." She gave a wave and continued her trek toward her band members.

Carhart followed her blue form with his gaze, and he couldn't help noticing the way her long hair bounced against her back when she skated or how her tresses ended in slight curls...

"She's single if you were wondering," said a voice behind the bar.

Carhart jolted in his seat. He had forgotten Brandy was still there. "I'm not - I wasn't - "

Brandy smirked and leaned forward. "She's singing tomorrow night if you want to come watch," she said softly and winked. She then tapped a mostly empty glass container that had a piece of paper taped on which read _TIP JAR_.

He stared blankly at it. What was a tip jar?

Brandy mouth twitched as if she were hiding a frown. "See you," the brunette carriage said stiffly before she strode toward the other end of the bar to attend to a laughing couple.

Carhart shifted uncomfortably. Had he done something wrong? Was there some American custom he didn't know? ...And would Brandy tell Sunny about his accidental _faux pas_? He wanted to apologize right there, but Brandy was busy now and would probably be more annoyed at an interruption.

He sighed and spun around on his stool. He saw that Jo had rejoined Angus and Phryne, who still chatted, but as Angus's eyes suddenly met Carhart's, the beef train smirked. He looked to the stage and then to Carhart, and he rose his beer mug as if in toast.

Carhart pinked and returned to his ice water. "Shut up," he murmured under his breath.

The jazz band had started an upbeat tempo, and Sunny beamed at the diners before her. " _Heaven, I'm in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak_ ," she caroled cheerfully, exuding a strong stage presence, "a _nd I seem to find the happiness I seek when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek_."

Carhart fingered the napkin on which Sunny had written McCoy's address in neat print. _Shed 36, past the west bridge near the water tower_. It was as good a place to start as any, though the thought of the approaching race brought yet another knot to his stomach. Maybe he could benefit from training on a private track if Angus was up for it - although he did not know what the diesel train would say to the old engine who had reportedly convinced a lot of the National racers to convert to steam.

That would be something he would deal with tomorrow, he told himself as he took another sip of water. His eyes trailed back to the stage. Tonight he could sit and enjoy another song.

THE END


End file.
